Magic Shots
by Cordria
Summary: A collection of short stories. Now playing: Magic Notes. Someone should have really told Harry to not trust something if you can't see where it keeps its brain... Genre: general, Rating: K
1. Six Again

_I had way too many ideas floating around in my head, so I'm starting a new oneshot collection for HP-related fics. As with all my oneshot collections, two rules apply:_

_1) These stories or story ideas will probably never be continued. You can always ask, but know the chances are slim._

_2) These stories are 100% adoptable. Please PM me if you're interested in finishing one!_

* * *

**Six Again**  
A Harry Potter Fanfic by Cori

* * *

It started with a phone ringing in the Ministry of Magic.

Well, as there were only two working phones in the entire Ministry – and both were on the same desk – it would be better to say the phone was ringing on the desk of the wizard unlucky enough to be manning the only desk devoted to the Muggle Relations Department on a Tuesday. The wizard's name was Thereby Tindershins and he was fresh out of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

He picked up the phone with a pleasant enough greeting, but the person on the other end was – to say the least – irate. Thereby almost dropped the phone in surprise at the furious tones of the man. It took a few minutes of listening, but Thereby eventually determined that one: he was speaking to a muggle, two: this muggle was the guardian for a young wizard child, and three: the man was dropping nearly-personal insults like some people used swear words.

Thereby was almost impressed. He picked up a quill and started scratching out tally marks, unable to get a word in edgewise.

Finally, a break in the conversation. A quick count set the tally for insults at thirty-six. "You're going to have to explain what's wrong, Mr…?" Thereby said – going for pleasant, but there was only so pleasant one could be after being roundly insulted for that length of time.

Apparently a 'ruddy nephew – one of the freaks like you' had gotten into some kind of 'freakishness that needed to be fixed'.

Thereby nodded, smiled, and made every attempt to be polite – not realizing the muggle couldn't see his gestures as he marked down the fiftieth insult of the conversation. "I'll send someone to your house. Can I get your name?"

That went over like a lead balloon. The man refused to have any 'abnormal freaks' (fifty-one) coming within a mile of his precious home. He didn't want any 'contamination' (fifty-two) of his family.

"Then what is it you want?" Thereby asked with a slightly annoyed tone.

The man stuttered a moment before demanding the address of the nearest 'freak' that could fix the mess his nephew had gotten himself into. No matter what questions Thereby asked, he couldn't get anything more out of the irate muggle.

Nearly fifteen minutes into the conversation (seventy-eight insults) and unable to get even the name of the 'freakish' nephew out of the muggle's mouth, Thereby picked up the book of all the wizard addresses in the area and started to page through it. Not even knowing the general area the man lived in, Thereby shook his head with a sigh.

Then his eyes caught on a certain name. Thereby wasn't too far out of Hogwarts to find this a perfect sort of revenge. Fitting, even.

"Do you have something to write on? I have an address for you."

* * *

It continued some hours later when a dark car drove up to a rather decrepit house on the outskirts of the town of Shrewsbury. The man living in the house paused when he noted the two people coming up the front walk, arching a smooth eyebrow. One of the uninvited guests was a rather large man with a purplish face. The other was a gangly young boy, more being dragged up the walk than actually moving under his own power.

The sound of the doorbell was loud and echoing. For a few moments, the owner of the house debated answering the door. He turned back to his supper, taking up a spoonful of steaming potatoes.

At that point, the person on the stoop apparently decided to hang on the bell. It rang, continuously, as the dark-haired man at the table swallowed his mouthful, set his spoon down gracefully, and folded his napkin. Listening to the doorbell begin to screech its displeasure at the abuse, he stalked through the shadow-filled home.

Yanking open the door, he snapped a sharp, "Can I help you?" The man – Severus Snape – barely kept the snarl from his voice.

"It's one of your lot, he is." The purplish man pushed the scraggily boy forwards for Severus to study. Uncut, grubby black hair fell in a disastrous mess over bright green eyes that were staring down at the sidewalk with murderous intent. The child seemed to be about six. "I'll not be responsible for… _this_." The last word came out dripping with intent.

"I hardly see how this involves me," Severus murmured darkly. He took a step backwards, shutting the door, but the muggle got his meaty foot in the way.

"Now, listen, you-"

Severus had his wand out, black-polished wood pointed directly at the man's bulbous nose. He watched the beady eyes follow the end of the stick. "Remove the foot or I will remove it for you. You shall not get it back."

The man moved his foot. "I got your address from the Ministry-"

"I do not care. Leave." Severus slammed the door shut in the man's face. The doorbell started to squeal again, but Severus cast a silencing charm on the doorbell and rubbed at his temples. Let the man hang on the bell. After a second's thought, he cast a charm on the door as well, just in case the man decided to bang on the door like an animal. He wouldn't put it past the muggle.

He headed back towards his supper. The potatoes were cool. Severus sighed and moved them around with his spoon, contemplating a warming charm. Unfortunately, potatoes were simply never the same after being subjected to magic.

The strange man and the young boy were pushed from his mind. After all, it was nearly the beginning of term – he would have a whole new passel of first years to crush. And the spawn of James Potter would be starting this year.

Severus almost smiled as he started to plan the first day of class. Revenge was a dish best served cold. Unlike potatoes.

* * *

A curveball came several hours later as Severus was pulling himself out of the old armchair and headed up the stairs. He deactivated the silencing charm on the door as he went by, confident that the man had long gone. The silence of the bell was a blessing. He pulled his robes around him, taking the first step of the stairs, when he heard it.

Severus stopped, turning his head slightly to find the source of the strange noise. A few steps to the left had him standing directly in front of the door, having identified the sound as crying.

If nothing else, Severus had a mind for logic. He took only a moment to decide that it was unlikely that the inanimate door was actually crying, and then reached forwards and wrenched open the door. There, sitting on the stoop in a huddled, pathetic-looking mass of six-year-old boy, was the child from earlier.

The boy started and spun around to stare at Severus. He clamored to his feet, green eyes wide. "Uh…"

"Where is your father?" The words were cold, but Severus had no desire to deal with the boy over summer break.

The boy shifted weight from one foot to the other, swiping at the tears that were still staining his cheeks. "Um… Surrey?" The boy's voice was quiet and raspy.

Folding his arms over his chest, Severus leaned against the door frame and gazed down at the child. Surrey was some three hours away. Severus glanced down at his watch, sighing at the time.

"Sir…"

"Shush," Severus chided. His forehead furrowed, his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, and then he shook his head. "Fine," he muttered, pushing the door open and taking a step backwards. When the child just continued to stare at him like he was some sort of ghost, Severus's eyes narrowed. "Are you waiting for a golden carriage? Get in!"

The boy scrambled inside, eyes fixed on Severus the entire time. Letting the door slam shut behind them, Severus slunk back into his sitting room. He sent a glance at the boy, noting that the kid was slowly following. Severus lit a few candles in the room and pointed towards the couch. The child obeyed the silent order, slinking into the chair.

In the better light of the sitting room, Severus could see the pale skin and ruddy cheeks. The boy was shivering faintly in the ragged shirt and jeans. Moving silently, Severus grabbed an old blanket and tossed it at the boy.

"I'm going to call someone to get you a ride. What is your father's name?"

The boy, now wrapped up in the blanket, blinked up at him with wide eyes. "He's my uncle," he corrected with a nervous quaver to his voice. "Vernon Dursley."

Severus nodded faintly, digging out a pen and paper and handing it to the boy. "I'll need his phone number. Write it down." He headed to his desk, searching for the never-used phone book that some oblivious muggle dropped on his doorstep every year. There was the sound of paper rustling behind him. "What is your name, boy?"

"Harry," came the quiet reply.

"Harry Dursley?" Severus found the book, blowing off a layer of dust. It was a book from over a decade ago, but the police station surely didn't change their number. And hopefully he wouldn't need to use it – the muggle would answer his phone if he knew what was best for him. "From Surrey."

"Harry Potter."

Severus stopped. Turned. Set the phone book down. Black, messy hair. Green, very familiar-seeming eyes. He took a few steps over to the child and took the offered paper, phone number scribbled on it. Severus frowned down at the paper, then brushed his fingers against the boy's unruly fringe of hair. The boy jerked backwards, but Severus caught sight of the old scar on his forehead. "Harry. Potter."

The green eyes hardened slightly. The shoulders tensed. But the voice was still trembling. "Are you going to call my uncle?"

"Are you not supposed to be eleven?" Severus asked the question in a bland sort of way.

Harry blinked up at him, mouth falling open in startled surprise. "How did you know that?"

"Magic," Severus answered.

Oddly, the boy shifted uncomfortably at the word. "There's no such thing," he said uncertainly. "My uncle says-"

"Your _uncle_ left you on my doorstep," Severus interrupted, folding the paper with the phone number in half and setting it onto his desk. "I hardly think his opinion matters at the moment." He stared hard at the boy. "Why are you not eleven?"

"I'm still…" Harry drifted off, glancing down at his hands. "Well, my birthday's not for another week, so I'm ten. I think."

Severus sighed and tapped the top of the boy's head with his finger. When Harry glanced up, Severus arched a serious eyebrow. "That does not answer the question. It is late; I would appreciate an answer before too long."

Harry shook his head. The unruly hair flew, settling into something a bit more normal. "I don't know, really. There was this dog, and then my head hurt, and when I woke up I was six. And my uncle was mad at me when I made it home."

"Your head hurt," Severus repeated. He felt a pain in his own head starting. It was far too late in the summer for these antics. Were it not almost eleven at night, Severus would have already owled the headmaster to sort things out. "Does it still hurt?"

A shrug was the answer. "Maybe-" The kid broke off when Severus leaned forwards and poked at a spot on the boy's head where the hair seemed especially matted. "Ow!"

Straightening himself, Severus noted the flecks of dried blood on his hand – remnants of what was undoubtedly matted in the boy's hair. He brushed his hands on his robes, staring blankly down at the child. It would be a Potter, near the end of July, little more than a month before the return of the brats. And it would have to be in the middle of the night, too.

Finally making a decision, Severus muttered a dark, "Come along," as he headed towards the bathroom. Not even checking to see if the boy had followed, he dug out a washcloth and a dark-colored potion. "Up." He patted the counter.

When Harry worked his way onto the countertop, he was peering around the tiny bathroom. Severus noted that the boy had lost some of the nerves he'd had before. "What are you going to do?"

"Your head is bleeding," Severus said, taking the cloth and wetting it in the sink. "Hold still." He quietly started to work at the dried blood, trying to get to the actual cut.

The boy squirmed uncomfortably. "My uncle said you were going to fix me," he muttered.

Severus arched an eyebrow. "Before he left you on my doorstep?"

Harry made an aborted attempt to nod. "He said if I tried to come back like this, he'd change the locks on the door."

Finally able to move the hair out of the way, Severus found the nasty-looking gash on the boy's head. It was nearly two inches long, still bleeding sluggishly – although Severus wasn't sure if he'd caused the newest bleeding. "What in the world did you hit your head on?" he murmured.

"I don't remember hitting it." There was the sound of heels banging softly against the cabinet doors, so Severus set one hand on the boy's knee. The movement stopped.

"This may burn a bit." Quietly uncorking the dark colored potion, he poured a generous amount into the boy's hair. The cut sizzled slightly as the potion worked its way in. Within moments, the cut was mostly sealed. Severus stood back, knowing the cut would heal the rest of the way on its own.

The boy reached up and carefully prodded his hair. "Cool," he whispered.

"Yes," Severus drawled.

"So are you?" the boy asked, letting his hand fall back into his lap.

"Am I what?"

"Going to fix me? Make me almost eleven again?" There was a hopeful tinge to the boy's voice. "I don't really want to live most of my life over again."

Severus stared at the child, thinking through the answer. There were few options and, as the boy didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, narrowed the options down to one. He felt his lips thin as the knowledge of what he needed to do settled into his mind. "Not tonight. We will call around and get some assistance in the morning."

"Oh."

With a sigh, Severus put the washcloth in the hamper and the vial back in the medicine cabinet. "Come." Severus turned and headed out into the hallway, creaking open the door to an unused room. It took only a moment to shake out the quilt, cascading a cloud of dust into the air.

The boy was hanging into the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the old room. The curtains were decorated with little flowers, the quilt a mess of muted colors. Severus waited a moment, but narrowed his eyes into a glare when the child didn't head for the bed. "Would you prefer other accommodations?"

Harry jerked, startled, and rapidly shook his head. "No, it's…" he trailed off, eyes wide, an expression Severus didn't understand on his face. "Thanks."

Severus made a noise in the back of his throat. He dug around through the cabinets for an old nightshirt, tossing it onto the bed. "Breakfast is at seven o'clock. There are towels under the sink in the bathroom. I expect you clean and _present_ at breakfast."

"Yes." The boy was still standing in the doorway, staring at him at the room with that odd expression.

"Good." Severus turned to stalk out of the room. "This is just for one night, but I expect you to be the most quiet house guest I have ever had." Making it to the safety of the hallway, Severus started towards his own bedroom. But first a pit stop for a potion for his head.

"Wait…" The child's tiny voice made Severus pause, glance back. The boy's wide green eyes were full of an impossible number of emotions as he stared down the hallway at the tall, dark man. "I don't know your name…"

Severus blinked. "Severus Snape."

The boy took that in, mouthing the name, then smiled in an eerily not-James-Potter smile. "Thank you, Severus Snape."

Then the door closed and Severus was left in the hallway, shaking his head.

* * *

_Uploaded June 25, 2014  
Thanks for reading!  
Your review is appreciated. :)  
_


	2. Magic Notes

**_Reminder: this is a collection of ONESHOTS. This one is NOT related to the first in any way except using the same characters and universe and such._**

_Don't trust something if you can't see where it keeps its brain. –Arthur Weasley_

* * *

**Magic Notes**  
A Harry Potter Fanfic by Cordria

* * *

Harry lay on his back on the little bed Mrs. Weasley had set up for him in Ron's room. The school supplies he'd purchased from Diagon Alley were still in the bags tossed at the foot of his bed, needing to be packed in his trunk at some point. Through the thin walls of the Burrow, he could hear Ron yelling at his brothers about something or other – but whatever it was, Harry couldn't quite bring himself to care about it at the moment.

In his mind, this was turning out to be the best summer vacation he'd ever had. A smile flickered at the corners of his mouth. George and Fred definitely couldn't ruin it, no matter what minor crime they were conning their brother into this time. He wasn't even sure his relatives could ruin it, even if they showed up right now and demanded he be returned to their care. The past week had been one of the best weeks of summer he could remember.

He thoughts turned to the trip to Diagon Alley. It had been two shades short of perfect. If only he hadn't run into the Malfoys. Or that strange, overly-smiley man at the bookstore that had dragged him into pictures and explained to the world he would be their professor in the coming year.

With that thought, the smile faded slightly. The man had hardly seemed… professor-ish. Harry rolled onto his stomach and squirmed around until he was able to dig his fingers into the bags and pull out one of his new Defense books. The gaudy man grinned at him from the cover of _Gadding with Ghouls_. "I wonder if he's any good," Harry muttered, flipping aimlessly through the pages. "But he's gotta be better than Quirrell, I guess."

He was about to toss the book back down into the stack – God forbid either Weasley twin saw him looking through a textbook with this much time left before school started – when something slipped out from between the pages and dropped to the floor. "What was that?" Dropping the book, Harry dug around under the bed, his fingers clamping onto a thin sheet of paper. Maybe it was some sort of receipt? Or maybe it was…

It was just a torn up bit of parchment. Harry frowned, flipping it over and over in his hands. "Weird." With a shrug, he tossed the piece of parchment back into the bag with his books and didn't think about it again.

.

* * *

.

Harry was still grinning from the awestruck expression on Neville's face when he unpacked his trunk and settled back into his dormitory. Flying a car to school, admittedly, hadn't been the best of plans ever – but the reception when Ron and him had gotten to the common room had been completely worth it. Even the detention couldn't dim his spirits.

The other boys were all busy putting their stuff away, Neville having to maked a list of the things he'd forgotten to pack and would need sent to him. Snickering slightly as Neville's list grew to a rather impressive length, Harry started to stuff his new schoolbooks onto the little desk next to his bed. The large collection of Defense books didn't quite fit. As he contemplated stowing them under his bed – a move Ron had already done – he caught sight of that rumbled up bit of parchment again. It must have gotten into his trunk when he'd packed to leave the Burrow earlier.

He wasn't going to give it any thought, just throw it away, but when he leaned down to grab it he noticed that there was something on it. A picture of some sort, where he was positive the parchment had been blank earlier. He smoothed out the parchment, trying to make out what it was. Whoever had drawn it didn't have much talent for sketching, that much was obvious. Harry wasn't entirely sure what it was supposed to be. A skull with a long tongue, perhaps?

The question dancing around in his mind was where the picture had come from. The parchment had been blank last time he'd seen it. "Hey, Ron."

"Yeah?" The red-head stopped digging through his trunk and glanced up.

"Did you draw this?" Harry held up the parchment.

Ron's forehead wrinkled. "No," he said, leaving what he was doing behind and walked over to Harry's bed. "Not a very good picture. Where'd you find it?"

"In one of my books." Harry flipped the paper over to see if there was anything on the back. There wasn't.

With a dismissive shrug, Ron said, "Throw it away, then."

"Check your _Gadding with Ghouls _book quick and make sure you didn't get one. Maybe it's part of the textbook."

Ron gave him a slightly scandalized look. "But… Defense doesn't start until Friday!"

Harry scowled at him. "Come on, Ron. I don't want to throw away something I'll need in a few days. Just check."

The other boy sighed, dropping to his stomach to search under his bed for the required book. "What I do for you, Harry Potter…" he muttered, dragging out the book after a moment and flipping through it. "See? No spare bits of parchment with stupid pictures drawn on them. Now stop acting like Hermione and throw the thing away."

Harry nodded, dropping the parchment onto his desk and turning his attention back to his trunk. Other school supplies were soon dropped on top in a mess of quills, parchment, and ink, and Harry quickly forgot the whole thing.

.

* * *

.

It took Harry nearly two weeks before he needed to finally clean off his desk. Schoolwork was starting to pile up and needed to get done, and the rather large mess of junk got in the way more often than not. Besides, he figured it was a good excuse to not work on that paper for transfiguration just yet.

He slowly sorted through the supplies, putting them away and taking his time doing it, when he came across that strange bit of parchment again. The crudely drawn skull had vanished, replaced by scrawling words. To Harry's delight, it looked like notes for the transfiguration assignment he was supposed to be working on. "Awesome!" He grabbed it, his eyes skimming through the notes, a grin on his face. "It must be magic note-taking parchment, or something."

About to call out to Ron and let him in on the fabulous new thing he'd found, his eyes caught on one of the notes near the bottom. It wasn't right. Harry glanced up at the door – Ron was still out in the hallway talking to someone – and then down at the notes. He'd forget the correction if he didn't write it down. Leaving Ron a moment, he grabbed his quill, dipped it into the ink, and crossed out the offending bit of knowledge, writing the right answer next to it.

"Harry? Coming down for supper?" Ron called.

Harry glanced at the time in surprise. Quickly putting the cap on his ink, he scrambled away from his desk and out the door, never noticing that a circle slowly formed around his words on the parchment – like an invisible hand was drawing on the page.

.

* * *

.

The parchment and the notes on it were forgotten until the next afternoon when Hermione started revising her transfiguration essay that was due the next day. Harry and Ron had exchanged a dark look – neither had even _started_ the assignment yet – and Harry slowly took himself up to the dormitory to collect supplies to work on it. Perhaps he could get Hermione to help.

It wasn't until his eyes lit on the bit of parchment that he remembered about the magic notes that had shown up on it. He grabbed it, happy to see them still on the page. More had been added here and there, in the margins. Heading back down, he passed Ron, who was grumbling and complaining about having to do an assignment on a perfectly good September afternoon.

With a bit of a grin on his face, Harry decided to keep his magic notes a secret for now. He found a table somewhat near Hermione and scanned the notes, checking a few things in his textbook as he went along. Whatever magic spell was on this parchment was brilliant – the notes were incredibly in-depth and actually helpful, unlike his own scribbled attempts.

"Done!" he cheered, pushing the essay away from him and leaning the chair back on two of its legs so he could put his feet up on the table. "How's it going, Ron?"

Ron frowned. He picked up his parchment and showed it to Harry. The other boy was only on his second paragraph. "How are you doing already?" Ron groused. "Let me see."

Harry handed over his essay, enjoying seeing Ron's eyes widen.

"Wow," the boy said after a moment. "This is, like, Hermione quality."

With that comment, the girl of their trio looked up from the book she'd been looking through and jerked the parchment from Ron's hands. Her eyes flicked back and forth as she read, her look of concentration giving way to surprise. "Harry. This is really good," she said, sounding startled.

Harry shrugged, feeling a warmth in his chest at the compliments. He casually set his transfiguration textbook on top of the magic bit of parchment, now definitely not wanting to give up the secret. It felt good, pretending to be as smart as Hermione. When the girl handed back his essay, Harry rolled it up and grinned at her.

"I…" she broke off, blinking, then shook her head, apparently giving up on whatever it was she had been planning on saying. "Good job."

"Thanks." Harry set the parchment down and let his feet down, grinning at Ron. "Come on, mate. Finish so we can go outside."

Ron scowled at him, then down at the parchment under his fingers. When Hermione ducked her hand back into her book, Ron leaned over and tapped his fingers against the table. "However it is you're cheating, I want in," he hissed.

"I didn't cheat," Harry told him.

"Right," Ron whispered. "And Neville's toad grew wings last night."

Harry tried to smile innocently, but it didn't look like Ron bought it for a second. After a moment, though, Ron went back to his essay.

"You owe me," Ron muttered.

With a soft laugh, Harry pushed his parchment slightly out of the way, found a clean spot on the notes, and scribbled, "Thanks for the notes," on them. Whatever magic spell put them there, he figured he might as well be nice about it. Maybe then it'd give him more.

Surprisingly, words started to show up under his, like they were being written by an invisible hand. "Who's writing on my notes?"

Harry blinked down at the question, startled. He reached for his quill, contemplating answering, but then gave it up. He stuffed the magic notes into his book, collected the rest of his supplies, and hauled it all back up to his room.

.

* * *

.

His transfiguration essay earned him his first-ever 'O' in transfiguration. He grinned all through the class, his good spirits apparently helping his magic because he was the second person (after Hermione) to turn his stick into a stool. Professor McGonagall even kept him after class to compliment him and tell him to keep up the good work.

After supper that night, he went up to his room to finish an assignment for potions. Ron, miraculously already done with the assignment, stayed in the common room to trounce Dean and Seamus in chess. Harry dropped into the chair at his desk, the dormitory almost eerily quiet since he was up here alone, grabbed his potions essay and reread it.

His eyes trailed over to his transfiguration essay, rather proudly set on top of his desk. Then to his transfiguration textbook – which held the magic bit of parchment that had helped him out. Maybe it had some potions notes now?

Harry reached for the book and flipped through it until he found the wrinkled piece of parchment. It was mostly blank, just the words, "Answer me," scrawled across the top and underlined a few times.

A glint of guilt crept into his brain. He hadn't even answered the question from before. But then again, it was just a piece of paper. It wasn't like it had feelings. Still, he dipped his quill into his ink and set the parchment onto his desk. "I will if you will," he wrote.

It took a few long minutes for a reply to form. "What was that mean?" the parchment wrote.

Harry grinned. "You tell me your name, I'll tell you mine," he scribbled, for some reason thinking the parchment spell would have some sort of name. There wasn't a reply. Harry's smile faded. Eventually he scowled and turned back to his potions essay. Apparently the parchment wasn't going to tell him its name - or any notes either.

He was almost finished with his essay when a thought popped into his head. He paused and chewed on the end of his quill, wrinkling his forehead in thought. Perhaps the parchment didn't have a name and didn't understand the question. Maybe the spell could only answer questions it could understand. He glanced at the magic parchment, about to ask it something else, when he noticed it had started to draw another picture. This time it was a badly drawn snake. It looked something like a wave with eyes.

"You're not very good at drawing," he scribbled absently as he tried to come up with someone else to say to fill up the last bit of his potions essay.

The parchment seemed to take offense at the comment. "I'd like to see you do better!"

Taking that as a challenge, Harry happily pushed his essay away and dipped his quill into the ink. He could still remember what that snake looked like from the zoo when it had 'attacked' his cousin last year. Biting his lip, he started to sketch the boa constrictor. His cousin was added as an afterthought, lying on the ground and protecting himself from the snake. He made sure to draw his cousin extra fat.

"Who's that?" The words appeared out of nowhere, an arrow forming and pointing to Dudley.

"My cousin," Harry wrote.

"Being bitten by a snake?"

Harry snickered. "I wish. The snake wasn't poisonous," he scribbled back.

It took a moment before more words appeared. "You do draw better than me," the parchment admitted.

"I don't expect it's hard to draw better than a bit of parchment does," Harry wrote, grinning.

"You really think the parchment is writing to you?" came the almost instant reply.

Harry paused, his smile fading, surprised at the thought that something other than the parchment could be writing. He glanced around his room. There was nobody else there. "Who else could it be?" he wrote, confused. A ghost, perhaps?

"How stupid are you?"

With a scowl, Harry stuffed the parchment between two of his untouched Defense books and hastily scribbled the last sentence of his potions essay. With one last glance at where he'd put the magic parchment, Harry left to find his friends. Perhaps Ron had gotten in enough wins already that'd he'd play nice for once.

.

* * *

.

October blasted in cold and rainy before the parchment once again made itself known. Between the strange voice in the halls nobody else could hear and homework, Harry hadn't even given the magic parchment a second thought. He pulled out one of his Defense books – he thought he might actually have to read it, even though he'd already given up on the class as a lost cause – and the parchment slid out with it. Once again, the paper was empty.

Harry glanced around the room. Neville was lying on his bed, half reading and half asleep, but otherwise the room was empty. He grabbed a spare quill and scribbled, "You there?" across the page.

Paging through his Defense book and finding the appropriate section, Harry waited around for nearly fifteen minutes with no reply. Eventually he sighed and left the room, leaving the parchment on his desk.

.

* * *

.

It was long after supper and close to lights-out before he made his way back up to his dormitory. Fighting back a yawn, Harry grabbed his pajamas from the pile on the floor. He headed towards the showers, but paused when his eyes caught on the parchment still sitting on his desk.

"Who are you?" was now written on the page.

Harry glanced at his friends – who were in various stages of getting ready for bed – and slowly set down his pile of clothes. He grabbed his quill. "You first," he wrote back, not wanting to give his name to some random… He wrinkled his nose, not entirely sure what he was writing to. The parchment? A magic spell? Another person?

The words formed slowly on the page. "I don't want to tell you my name."

"Why not?" he scribbled, chewing on the end of his quill as he waited for the reply.

"I don't know who you are."

"Ditto," he muttered. After a few seconds, he wrinkled his forehead in thought, then put his quill to the parchment and wrote, "You're a person, then?"

"Obviously." The word showed up extremely quickly, the letters slanted like someone had pressed too hard against the parchment with their quill.

Harry grinned. "So it's magic parchment?"

"You _are_ an idiot," came the response. "You must have the other half of my parchment. It's spelled so that whatever shows up on one parchment shows up on the other too."

"I would have figured that out," he said aloud, eyes narrowed slightly as he stared down at the words. "Eventually, anyways."

Ron shuffled up next to him before he could figure out how to reply to the comment. "It's almost eleven at night," the redhead groused. "Are you seriously doing homework?"

"No," Harry shot back. He set his textbook on top of the parchment and grabbed his pajamas. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Whatever," Ron replied, heading back towards his bed. "Lights out in ten minutes, so don't take too long."

"Yeah," Harry said, letting his gaze linger on the textbook covering the parchment before shaking his head and heading towards the showers. The hot water eased most of the thoughts out of his head and, by the time he crawled into bed just before lights-out, Harry wasn't thinking much about the magic parchment or the mysterious person writing to him.

He never even contemplated whether or not writing to an unknown entity was even a good idea.

.

* * *

.

Harry – quite accidentally – brought the magic parchment with him to History of Magic a few days later. It had been tucked under his book and Harry'd just grabbed the whole pile, less concerned about what was in his hands than getting to breakfast before the Weasleys ate all the sausages again.

With nothing better to do while sitting in class, and a copy Hermione's notes only a pleading away, Harry unwrinkled the parchment and stared down at it. Notes appeared on it as he watched, scribbled rather quickly from what he could tell. It was work from Charms class, he realized with a start.

"I did just that," Harry whispered, tapping a finger on the incantation he'd learned in Charms the previous day. He even had a half-done assignment to finish on that particular charm. These notes would come in handy later.

Harry read through the notes, wondering why the person with the other parchment would be writing them, then noticed that a question had just been written down. "What is the purpose of the triangular symbol at the end of the _colovaria_ incantation?"

Fighting back a grin, Harry grabbed his quill. Hermione had answered that very same question the night before when she'd bothered Ron and him long enough that they started their essays. She'd actually had to explain the answer three times before Ron caught on. Even though the person wasn't asking _him_, he figured he could answer it. "It means it's a three tiered spell," he wrote, drawing an arrow to the question.

The note taking on the next line paused. "A what?" was written under his answer.

"It's a spell with three possible levels," Harry wrote, feeling inordinately pleased that he knew something this other person did not. "It can be used as an illusion, a temporary reality, or an actual physical change, depending on how you cast it."

Little blobs of ink appeared under that. Harry was betting the other person was tapping their quill on the page. Then, "Thanks" appeared.

Harry glanced up at their professor. The old ghost was still droning away in the front of the room, not caring whether or not the students listened. "Charms class?" Harry wrote, going back to ignoring the lecture.

"Yes."

He blinked, startled by the thought that the person who was writing was in the Charms classroom just down the hall. A slow grin crossed his face as he realized what that meant. "You're a student at Hogwarts!" he scribbled, excited by the deduction.

"Thus the notes," the parchment read. Somehow, it came off as annoyed.

"Second year, if you're learning color-changing charms," Harry wrote, his brain working furiously as he tried to determine who it could be. "Slytherin or Ravenclaw, right? They have charms right now."

There wasn't an answer to that, which caused Harry to wrinkle his nose in frustration. He was pretty sure he was right, though, which meant that his secret note-taker was someone he knew.

"I'll figure you out," he wrote across the bottom, then stuffed the parchment back into his bag and attempted to focus on Professor Binns for the remainder of the class. Being that he ended up doodling a picture of the ghost getting eaten by a shadowy monster, he didn't think he did very well.

.

* * *

.

In the weeks leading up to the Halloween party, Harry kept a close eye on the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws. He'd already discounted most of the Slytherins simply because the notes he read were too in-depth to come from someone without a working brain. Honestly, his focus was mostly on the Ravenclaws. The few Slytherins that weren't as dumb as rocks couldn't be nice enough to hold any sort of conversation.

The scribbled conversations were stilted at best; mostly they focused on chatter about classes and various assignments. Harry found himself becoming less and less dependent on Hermione as he found the mystery person willing to answer his questions and work with him on his essays. The parchment answered most of the questions he had on the assignments quicker than asking Hermione, who tended to go on and on well past the point where she'd answered the question. Whoever was on the other end of the parchment liked to keep things short and simple, a trait Harry liked.

What little other conversation they had generally focused on on two things: the professors themselves and Quidditch. It was actually sort of fun, bantering back and forth about the worst of the Hogwarts staff. They shared an extreme dislike of Lockhart, an abhorrence for Filch – although the other's distaste stemmed mostly from the fact that Filch was something known as a _squib_ – and thought that the mediwitch was extremely smothering.

Harry also learned that the other student, a male he was almost certain, was a serious Quidditch addict. Any time the sport was brought up, Harry found himself being flooded with statistics on the various teams and how they were currently functioning.

Harry was most of the way to believing his mysterious writer was a Ravenclaw named Terry Boot. After asking around, he'd found that the boy was a pureblood and an avid Quidditch fan.

He watched the Ravenclaw closely as they ate lunch, then slunk to his last class before the Halloween feast: Potions. Professor Snape was in a fine mood that day, handing out two detentions before class even started. When the finally man got up to start lecturing, Harry hurried to grab his notes -

Which he sourly realized he hadn't remembered to actually put in his bag. His mind helpfully supplied him with an image of them sitting on his bed. He thumbed through the supplies in his bag, half considering writing on the back of the essay he had finished for Transfiguration, when his eyes fell on the spare bit of parchment. He'd taken to carrying it around so he could write on it when he was in the library.

Normally he wouldn't dare take out the magic parchment in Snape's class – the man would undoubtedly see it and take it away – but it happened to be blank and perfect for taking notes. He bit his lip, tossing the idea around in his head. The magic parchment was better than re-writing his Transfiguration essay later and better than _not_ taking notes and getting a detention (or three) because of it.

"We're starting a unit on mind-altering potions," Snape started, tapping the board with his wand so notes started to scrawl themselves across the board. "We'll start with a mild sleeping draught…"

He looked down to write that, only it was already written on the page. As he watched, slightly dumbfounded, the notes covering what Snape was saying were appearing on the page. Whoever was writing was listening to the same lecture he was.

His eyes flickered around the Slytherin side of the classroom. He hadn't been writing to a Ravenclaw after all. Harry couldn't help the slight feeling of disappointment at that. Whoever was writing was sort of fun to write to. Finding out it was a Slytherin put a damper on the feeling.

"Mr. Potter."

Harry flinched and looked up at the professor. Snape was only a few feet away, staring down at him along the man's long nose. "Yes, Sir?"

"Are you taking notes or staring at the wall?" the man said, his voice sneering and mocking.

"Notes," he replied, holding up the magic parchment as proof.

Snape eyed it. Then looked up at him. "What is the main compound in a mind-altering potion, then?"

Harry didn't have a clue. He'd been so busy staring at the Slytherins that he hadn't been paying a lick of attention to the lecture. He glanced down at his notes, finding the answer with relative ease. "Lavender."

"And why?"

"Uh… it's relaxing and calming." Harry scanned the notes furiously, trying to come up with a better answer. "Calm people's minds are more open to suggestion?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. Then he turned on his heel and stalked towards the front of the room, still lecturing.

Harry let out a short breath, quietly thanking whoever was taking these notes for how in-depth they were. Picking up his quill, he added a few things here and there that had been missed.

It was almost like tandem note taking as the lecture dragged on. Anything the other missed, Harry filled in. Slowly, as the class drew to a close, Harry's mind caught on the idea of trying to trick the person into reveling themselves. A grin slowly crossed his face as he worked out the plan.

He carefully arranged his desk so that his textbook was next to the parchment. Down in the far corner, nearest the textbook so he could cover it quickly, Harry wrote a quick note: "Snape is the worst professor ever."

He slid the textbook over to cover the writing, then trained his eyes on the Slytherins. Most of them were still taking notes – although Goyle appeared to be asleep – and then one of them flinched. Looking a bit furious, Malfoy glared at his notes, then took his correcting quill and started to cross things off on his parchment, the scribbled down something.

Harry blinked, tipping his head to the side, then slid his textbook a bit. The words had been erased. New words were in their place. "Don't write that."

It hit Harry like a ton of bricks. He'd been writing to _Malfoy_. And he'd been enjoying it, too.

No doubt he was still looking a bit stunned ten minutes later when they were dismissed. "You feeling okay?" Ron asked as they left the classroom and headed back to their dormitory.

"Yeah," Harry answered, trying to shake away the stunned feeling echoing around in his head. "You ready for the party?"

Ron rolled his eyes – no doubt still annoyed about getting roped into going to the ghost's party first – and then nodded. "But we're making it quick, right?"

"Right," Harry agreed absently, his mind still processing through the fact that the person he'd been writing to was Malfoy of all people. There was no way… The person on the parchment had been actually _nice._ Malfoy couldn't be nice to save his soul.

And yet he'd seen Malfoy react. There was really no doubting it.

Harry listened to Ron give the password for the Gryffindor dorm and a small smirk curled on his lips. Malfoy apparently had a secret nice streak. It was an interesting thing to hold over the other boy's head.

Dropping off his bag on his bed, Harry glanced towards Ron and pulled the parchment from his bag. It was still covered in notes from potions. He chewed on his lip a second, debating what he was about to do, then grabbed his quill. Across the bottom, he wrote, "I know who you are."

Then he stuffed the parchment under his bed and got ready for the Halloween party.

* * *

Uploaded July 19, 2014  
Thanks for reading!


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